Can't You Help Me?
by Smol Bean Jish
Summary: My name is Kali. I'm 15 years old. I've lived on the streets since I was 7, and I'm on my way to yet another boarding school, payed for by a man I once met, named Hades. But there, I meet two boys. Both hold the keys to the truth. One holds the key to my future, and the other holds the key to my heart.
1. Chapter 1

**Never Looked Back**

Hi. I'm Kali; Kali Speculation. Kinda a weird name, I know. But it suits me.

See, I've always been kinda…. _different_. I mean, besides my _massive_ amounts of ADHD, I have dyslexia and _insomnia_, which is pretty rough. I'm also often cold, and have a serious allergy to _lemon seeds_. Not _lemons_, not lemon _juice_, just lemon _seeds_.

But all these things are just on the surface. There are other things, too; things that have lead me to wondering if I really am psychotic. Wondering if there really is something seriously wrong with my brain. I mean, tomorrow, I'll be starting my first day of 10th grade – at the eleventh school since kindergarten. Yes, I have successfully gotten kicked out of every single school I've ever been to, within one year.

Plus, I _see_ things, crazy things that no one else ever seems to see. A lot of the time, these…. _Sightings_, as I like to call them, are the things that get me kicked out of school in the first place.

Like in third grade, I was expelled because a few teachers found me trying to strangle another student in the hallway when I was supposed to be at lunch. I was sitting on top of him, both hands wrapped tight around his throat, and he was blue in the face and almost unconscious. Nobody believed me when I said that he tried to kill me. Or that he had horns, fangs, and fifteen eyes. His face _was_ blue, sure, but so was all the rest of him. And he was no classmate, either. I couldn't understand how nobody realized that he walked into school that day and tackled me, trying to claw my eyeballs out.

And _I_ got expelled.

Or how about in sixth grade? I was booted for attacking my gym teacher. The same teacher who dried to rip my head off after a game of dodge ball. The same teacher whose whole body was a scaly green, who had a forked tongue and fangs that dripped venom. The same teacher who had creepy yellow snake eyes. Who didn't even have _legs_, and instead had a freaky scaled snake tail.

I ran away from home the day I turned seven. My mom – I never had a dad; I was the result of a crappy one-night stand, so said my mother – used to get drunk, then high. Then she would beat me. I used to take it, too, cause I didn't realize that there was any other option. But on my seventh birthday, my mom gave me the first birthday present she'd ever gotten me – third-degree burns after she held my hand in the flames of the stove, until my skin bubbled and blistered. I punched her in the face, fighting back for the first time ever, and ran out the door, right then and there.

I've never once looked back.

After a month or two passed, I was starving and half-dead. I'd had another Sighting, and came out way worse for wear when I'd managed to bite through it's thick skull, my teeth stabbing through its brain. I was all banged up, bleeding, and felt like I'd just done a few rounds with Chuck Norris, then run over by a truck. Twice. So, bleeding out and freezing, I managed to drag myself into a grimy ally. The last thing I saw before I passed out was a girl's face, one eye black and missing a tooth.

When I woke up, I was warm, and bandaged, and in some sort of abandoned warehouse all around me were these older girls; tough looking girls, rough-around-the-edges girls. And that's how I joined my first gang.

Well, maybe _joined_ isn't the right word. I wasn't a member, but they kept me around; fed me, put clothes on my back and shoes on my feet, and gave me a place to spend the night. In return, I was their lackey, their _bitch_, as they liked to call me.

I hopped from gang to gang over the next few years. They never came after me, so I guess they realized it wasn't betrayal, per se. They were all just stops on the way, helping hands for the child runaway.

After awhile, something weird happened; something I still don't understand. I was almost nine; my birthday was in just a few days. I was walking past a bunch of big rocks in a park, singing a song I'd heard recently. Ani difranco, I think it was. I had bent over to tie my shoe, still singing, and then suddenly there was this huge grinding sound, like an earthquake. When I looked up, there was this big triangle-shaped opening in the rocks. I've always been too curious for my own good, so I started walking down the steps. Not like I had anything to lose, right?

The rocks groaned and shut behind me. So I kept going down. After an hour or so, I finally hit the bottom.

Looking around, it was dark and creepy. There was a filthy river to my right, with brown, sludgy water, and a huge castle in the distance. In front of me was some sort of endless field of obsidian-colored dirt. There were these weird glowing blurry things, floating around in the field like ghosts. Blurry ghosts. Stalactites and stalagmites hung from the black, cavernous ceiling. I could hear screams echoing from my left, off in the distance, horrible, painful wails. Besides that, all that could be heard was the eerie moan of the wind. Or was it the wind?

So, basically, this place looked like hell. Pure, utter hell.

I was scared. I mean, maybe I was a tough semi-gangster girl, but I was still only eight. I started walking to the castle. I bit my lip and felt my heart beat faster as soon as my foot landed on the field. As I walked, little wet droplets dripped down continually from the spikes hanging from the ceiling, landing on me. I walked faster and pulled up the hood of my too-big gray hoodie, twisting the ends of my ragged, uneven white-blonde hair fearfully.

After a while, as the castle grew and grew as I slowly approached, the blurs seemed to become aware of me. They drifted closer, and closer still. When I looked right at one, it blurred and all but disappeared. But when I looked at them from the corner of my eye, they were clear as day.

They were ghosts.

They swarmed even closer and fear tears swam in my eyes. My lower lip trembled and my heart was a jackrabbit in my chest. I blinked, and suddenly they were all clear and in focus, like someone had removed some kind of filter.

With a nearly deafening chatter, eerily like that of dice rolling, they were swarming me, surrounding me. Terror coursed through me as they reached for me, past me, _into_ me. It felt like they were trying to _become_ me, to crawl inside and take me over. I screamed and shook them off, running to the elusive palace that taunted me in the distance. Tears streaked past my cheeks as I ran, dripping silently onto the black dirt beneath me.

When I finally reached the castle, they huge, menacing, black spiked gates were closed firmly and locked. That wasn't a problem for me; I climbed over them easily. Adrenaline can do strange things to a person.

For a while, I wandered through the endlessly winding, maze-like hallways. They were made of a shimmering obsidian, lit by torches of green fire and encrusted with enormous priceless jewels. I was busy trying to pry out a stunningly faceted diamond – easily the size of my fist, glittering unimaginably in the flickering torchlight – when a man found me. He was so shocked to see me, he literally fell over.

He had oily black hair slicked back from his face with gel, pale skin, and jet black eyes. He was tall, really tall – like, eleven feet tall – and disproportionately thin. He wore a impeccably tailored black suit and spotless black dress shoes, with an iPad tucked under one arm.

I tried to run away, even though it literally hurt me to leave that diamond behind – that could have fed me, my children, and my _grand_children, easily, for the rest of our lives – but he stopped me.

I started crying, absolutely certain that this strange rich man was going to hurt me, and blubbered out an apology. He dragged me by the arm to another room, even more beautiful than the hallway before, and sat in a huge, throne-like chair. He made me tell him my story – the whole thing about not having a dad, my mom, beating me, running away from home, my life on the streets, and how I had gotten there (wherever "there" was). After, his hard, cold face seemed to soften, and he told me his name was Hades, and ordered someone I couldn't see to have food brought down "from the surface," whatever _that_ meant. He gave me a room to sleep in for a few days, and he fed me more than I'd ever eaten before. Despite the cold and gloomy darkness, I was incredibly happy there. I guess Hades had felt bad for me, this lost little beaten blonde girl, running away in that…. Ghost Kingdom.

After a few days, Hades took me back up the stairs where things were normal, and he made a deal with me. He would arrange for me to go to one boarding school a year. If I got kicked out, I would have to go back onto the streets until the next year, where he would set up a different school. He also gave me a knife, and a crappy black flip-phone. He had his number programmed in it, but told me not to call him unless it was an emergency, and that no matter what I could never come back down the stairs; "Or at least," he had muttered, "Not until she's gotten to Camp."

Then he disappeared. A few days later, a business woman handed me a note and a backpack and stuffed me in a taxi, shipping me off to my first boarding school.

So…. Yeah. That's my wonderful childhood. I'm fifteen now, looking forward to getting kicked out of yet another school, supposedly made for "troubled kids and teens." Yeah right. They've never met me, then.

I guess we'll see what happens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Maybe Pigs Will Fly**

"And here is where you'll be staying!" gushes the overly-cheerful guide, showing me around the campus of the Teddy Roosevelt School for Troubled Kids and Teens. TRSfTK, for short. You know, in case you were wondering. "These are your new roommates: Kimberly, Danielle, and Colby! Girls, this is Kali! She's new here, and I know you girls will do your best to make her feel welcome here; isn't that right?"

Each girl looks up when their name is called. The last girl, Colby, gives me the finger when the guide isn't looking.

Kimberly is a tough-looking burly Asian girl, and Danielle looks like a Hispanic, teenage Lil Kim. Colby is black, with half her head shaved and a heavy side part, with lots of facial piercings. She even has a teardrop tattoo under her left eye, signifying that little miss Colby over here has murdered someone. I am not scared. I've hung out with girls way tougher than this group of wanna-be's.

Still, though, I feel the need to establish that I am not just some scrawny white chick who's gonna be their bitch, too. I'm done doing that. Staring calmly, if a bit distastefully, at Colby, who is clearly the leader here, I turn my back slightly to the perky guide and flash a gang sign at Colby casually; the Bandits, one of the baddest girl-gangs in New York. I only hung with them for a few weeks about six months ago, but Colby doesn't need to know that. She scowls at me and rolls her eyes, going back to shredding a pair of jeans with a scissor.

"Okay!" chirps the guide, oblivious to the battle of wills that just went on. "This is it, Kali! Why don't you go ahead and unpack your things, and I'll come back in a little while to finish showing you around!"

I swing my backpack up onto the top bunk of the bed farthest from the window, climbing in after it. I lie back, crossing my arms behind my head.

"Hey," someone snaps haughtily. I crack open an eye and glare at the girl. It's the Asian; Kimberly. "That be _my_ bed."

I almost snort at her fake "hood accent." _Clearly_, this girl wants to be black. I prop myself up on one elbow and raise an eyebrow at her. "Oh yeah? That's funny; I didn't see your name on it!"

Lil Kim shoots to her feet beside Kimberly. "Look, _gringa _**(A/N: White girl)**," she snaps. "I don' know _who_ the _hell_ you think you aw, but you betta get yo' _scrawny ass_, _down_ from they'a **(There)**, and get in _yo_' bed, ova he'a **(Here)**!"

I roll my eyes and snort, lowering myself back down. "No thanks, _chica_; I think I'm good here."

"Oh shit! You did _not_ just say that!" snaps the Asian. "Colby, come an' deal with dis bitch!"

Colby glances up to me and the other girls, curling her lip in disgust. "She be pawt **(Part)** o' the Bandits," she sneers. Good, clearly she recognized my gesture. Maybe now I won't have to punch anyone. "Jus leave hu **(Her)** alone."

"Excellent," I cry, sitting up quickly and grabbing my bag. "Now that that's settled –" I swing down from my new bed and stuff my few belongings – only the ones I won't care when the other girls steal or destroy them in revenge – into the empty chest at the foot of the bed. Then I swing back onto the bunk, sitting on the edge and letting my legs dangle over the side. "Much better," I taunt. Somebody, I think it's Danielle, growls at me. "Also, if anybody touches my stuff – well, let's just say, it's not a good idea." I smirk and pull a knife from my boot. I twirl it expertly between my fingers before shoving it back in, pulling my pant leg back down to cover it.

It's a cool knife, really. Hades gave it to me; don't know if I mentioned that earlier.** (A/N: I did ;D)** The blade is made of some metal called "Celestial Bronze," with a genuine silver hilt, studded with onyxes, which I couldn't manage pull out to pawn off for food. Hades said it would help me to fight off the monsters.

To their credit, the other girls don't even look scared. They just sneer at me and go back to doing whatever they were doing before I came in and ruined their whole dynamic. I relax back into my bunk, confident in the power arrangement here. As far as I am aware, we have a grudging deal: they'll leave me alone if I leave them alone. Just like it always has been.

Ω

I get my schedule an hour later. Not too bad. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I start early, at 6:45, for **Chemistry Lab**, which is apparently for experimentation with the chemicals. Then after that I have **Advanced Drama** at eight, which is my first class on Tuesday and Thursday. I have regular **Chemistry** at 9:15, **Wrestling** at 10:30, which is an awesome class, by the way. Apparently, the coach is also the Chemistry teacher, who was apparently a professional European wrestler for like, 10 years. So that's pretty cool.

After that I have **Lunch** at 11:45. Then comes **Trig** at one, English at 2:15, and **American History** at 3:30. On the days I start early, my last class is **Equestrian Studies** – aka _horseback riding_! Frickin' awesome. On Tuesday and Thursday I have **Spanish** instead, starting at six and ending at 7:30.

So…. It's a long day, that's for sure. I'm pretty confident about this year, actually, which surprises me. I've pretty much taught myself not to be too hopeful when it comes to school. I mean, I've successfully been expelled from every school I've ever been to, so…. But something about this year feels different. I feel like maybe Hades picked this school with my interests in mind.

Which is ridiculous, I realize, seeing as Hades knows almost nothing about me. But still, I don't know if it's the hours – I've always been an early-bird – or the classes – I mean, _Wrestling_?! That's sick! And Drama, and Chemistry…. I can't wait to make something explode! Singe off my eyebrows.

Wait.

If I don't want to be expelled, I should probably _not_ do that. Damn.

Anyway, besides my awful roommates, I think this year might actually be pretty okay. Who knows? Maybe I'll even make a friend.

I snort.

Yeah right. And maybe pigs will fly.


	3. Chapter 3

**If You Ever Need My Help**

The next morning, my alarm clock goes off at 7:35 am, scaring the living hell out of me. In an instant I am up and on my feet. My fist slams down on the snooze button, cutting off the awful, bone-grating sound, on the same unfortunate frequency of nails on a chalkboard. My sucky roommates give no reaction at all; not so much as a twitch.

I flick the _off_ switch on the alarm and shake my head hard, as if I'm shaking off water after a swim; it helps wake me up.

I grab my outfit for today; a pair of dark, well-worn super-skinny jeans, ripped at the knees and faded in places, a loose black band tee – Nirvana, bless their musical genius – and a pair of black socks, along with my…. underthings. I take these clothes into the tiny bathroom off the main room. I grab two towels from the shelves on the wall, hanging them over the shower before folding my clothes and leaving them in a neat pile on the floor beside the shower.

I wash quickly, drying off and wrapping one towel around my body, and the other around my long, thick, white-blonde hair. I get dressed and check the clock – 7:50. I run a brush hastily through my wet hair, putting on deodorant and brushing my teeth before slipping from the bathroom. I grab my sturdy, plain black bookbag, full of any and all supplies I'll need for school this year – the bag that Hades had his businesswoman bring me when she came to deliver me to this new school – and sling it over one shoulder. I struggle into my _incredible_ combat boots – size seven, genuine black leather with a series of buckles and a five-inch solid rubber platform – by far the best thing I've ever stolen.

I quietly slip my dagger into my right boot and put on my silver wallet chain before slipping out the door, pulling open the map I was given with my schedule.

Struggling to read the 2-Demensional sketch, I finally find room 164 – the Drama room – which is, of course, about as far as you can _possibly be_ (!) from the dorms – two buildings over and on the third floor.

When I _finally_ get there – _just_ making eight – there is only one seat left, next to a black-haired boy in the third row. I slide into the seat and pull out a notebook and a black gel pen – I refuse to use any other kind of pen. As I wait for the teacher to arrive, I examine the boy to my left subtly, from the corner of my eye.

He has in black earbuds, and he's blasting – I grin – Nirvana. He's slumped over his desk, doodling in his notebook. I don't dare turn my head to check, but it appears that he's drawing a series of skulls across the page. The boy himself has scraggly black hair, too long and tangled. He's pale, with just the faintest hint of olive in his skin. He wears a wrinkled, loose black tee, black cargo pants, and black combat boots – but his aren't nearly as cool as mine.

He pulls out his earbuds and glares at me. His eyes are glittery black, I notice, like onyx. "Stop staring," he growls, clearly not inviting a friendly introduction – like I was going to give one, anyway.

Any other person would blush and look away at having been caught, or mutter some half-hearted apology. That's clearly what he expects, like his cold glare will scare me away. And I'll admit, it's not half bad. He must have hung with some pretty tough people, to learn a glare like that.

Of course, mine is much better.

Also, did I mention that I'm very competitive?

I don't look away; instead, I meet his glare calmly. This seems to surprise him. I grin, just a tiny bit, coyly, raising an eyebrow. Then I turn toward him, swinging my legs over the side of the chair to face him so that the smiley-face logo and the word _Nirvana_ on my shirt are visible. "I like Nirvana," I greet.

He just scowls and goes back to drawing. I roll my eyes and swing back the right way in my chair. "Mister Sunshine," I mutter under my breath.

I hear him scowl again. I open my notebook to the last page and click open my pen, prepared to begin doodling like Mister Sunshine next to me, and then the teacher comes in.

He is an older man, in a motorized wheelchair. He has thinning gray hair and a stubbly beard. He's wearing this weird tweed jacket, and even from here I can tell he smells like coffee. He wheels over to his desk and drops down a big black binder. It falls with a loud _BANG_ and everyone jumps but me.

And Mister Sunshine.

The teacher wheels up to the front of the classroom and, on the white board, he scrawls in messy handwriting, _Mr. Brunner_. "This," he states dramatically, a cheerful glint in his eyes, "is my name. We have a few new students this year, so please, do try to keep up." He grins.

I like this man.

"We are going to get right into it. I need a female volunteer to come perform a scene in front of the class? Anybody? Somebody?"

I look around; nobody's hand is raised.

I roll my eyes; why not? I don't bother raising my hand; I push my chair back and walk up to Mr. Brunner. I hold my hand out for the papers and grin at him. He raises an eyebrow at my boldness, but grins back kindly and hands me a few stapled papers. I walk to the front of the room and, as he asks for a male volunteer, I spend a moment unscrambling the words, writing them down in the empty spaces. Damn dyslexia.

Just as I finish, I look up and hear Mr. Brunner say, "No volunteers? Okay. How about…." He checks the attendance list. Before he calls a name, though, he looks up at me. Brow furrowed slightly. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. It's Kali. Kali Speculation." I hear a few snickers from the class and I leer at them all collectively.

Mr. Brunner nods and jots something down on another paper. Then he shakes his head a bit and goes back to the attendance list. Privately, I wonder if he has ADHD too.

Probably.

"How about Neeso?" he calls, looking through the students. "Neeso? Neeso di Angelo?"

There is the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and Mister Sunshine rises to his feet, scowling. "It's Nico," he corrects, "and I can't read the lines." He speaks as if Mr. Brunner should know this already.

Mr. Brunner raises an eyebrow, as do I. "Oh?" he asks. "Why is that?"

Mister Sunshine – Nico – glares at the teacher and stuffs his hands in his pockets, scraping the toe of his boot along the floor, clearly uncomfortable with every pair of eyes in the room on him. I don't understand that, personally; I thrive in it.

"I'm dyslexic," is his response. I can't help it; I snort, real loud, too. His head jerks up and he glares at me. "What?" he snaps.

It's a weak excuse, and he knows it. He just wasn't expecting anyone to call him on it.

"So am I," I challenge, smirking. "I already unscrambled it. Or, well, scrambled it, I guess." It's true. To anyone else, my notes would look like a random arrangement of letters. For example, _Reov het Itnunsaiom fo het Omon_. But to us dyslexics, it's perfectly legible. "Come on," I taunt, enjoying myself more than I should. "I'll scramble it for you."

Nico glares at me like he wants to stab me, but can't figure out how to do it without getting in trouble, and I nearly laugh. If only he knew what was underneath my right pant leg, strapped to my boot.

Still glowering, he comes forward and snatches the papers out of Mr. Brunner's hand, thrusting them in my face.

I just grin and write down the real words.

Ω

"Over the Mountains of the Moon," intones Nico ominously, his voice deep and reverberating, ensnaring the watching audience. He was reluctant at first, but once the scene actually started, he really got into it. "Down the Valley of the Shadow..." His eyes are hollow as he slowly glides toward me from the other side of the room. I stand motionless, watching him. My lips are parted ever-so-slightly, eyebrows turned up. My pupils are blown wide with fear – yes, I can control my pupils, that's another weird thing about me – as I tremble slightly.

Nico is hardly a foot away now. "Ride," he rasps, "Boldly ride!"

One hand slowly reaches out, creeping toward my neck.

"If you _seek_—"

On the last word, he breaks into a hiss. His hand inches closer still, a heartbeat way from my pale, exposed throat.

"—_for El... dorado..._"

As his last word echoes through the room, his hand wraps around my throat.

I go limp, collapsing forward, toward him, turning in the air so it's like a trust fall. I rally hope he gets it and catches me, because I don't really want to smash my head against the floor right now.

He does catch me, thankfully, both arms wrapping around me, one at my ribs and the other at my waist. I hold my breath and let my eyes close half-way, glazing over. I remain entirely limp, not reacting even when I feel my shirt riding up, exposing the waistband of my jeans, then several inches of my flat, toned abs.

I see a dark, evil grin spread across Nico's face as he drags my limp body across the room. My feet drag across the floor as this murderous ghost drags me away, out the door. Once in the hallway, he lets out chilling laugh, the sound echoing perfectly in the empty hallway.

Once we hear the door click softly shut behind us, he helps set me back on my feet, grinning hugely. I'm grinning right back, and after I finish pulling my shirt back down, I throw my arms around him ecstatically for a moment.

He goes rigid as a board, but he doesn't shove me away like I expected, which is a good sign.

As I let go and step back, I almost fall over. Is that a trace of pink on Nico di Angelo's cheeks? Is Nico... _blushing_?!

Ha! I'm a girl of many talents.

Grinning widely, I say, "Gods, that was awesome! Why the heck did you not want to do that? You're amazing!"

Nico freezes. "Say that again."

"You're amazing," I repeat.

"No, no; what you said at first."

"Um, gods, that was awesome?"

Nico nods, brow furrowed. "Gods. Why do you say gods, not god?"

Now my brow furrows, too. "I don't know,: I say thoughtfully. "It's just something I've always said." Nico looks troubled. "Is there... something wrong with that?"

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, shaking his head. "Here." He pulls something from his pocket and grabs my left hand.

I feel something cool and damp on my palm. "What—?" He lets my hand go and caps a Sharpie. I pull my hand back to me, eyeing the series of numbers scrawled across the bottom of my palm. I blow on it to help the ink dry, and ask, "What's this?"

"My cell phone number."

I choke, and my eyebrows shoot up so fast that I honestly think I pulled a muscle.

Nico scowls fiercely. "Not... like that," he snaps, shuffling his feet. "Call me if you ever need my help."

I start to respond, but just then the bell rings, and I go back inside to grab my bag, but when I come out, he's gone.

Ω

Chemistry goes pretty okay. The teacher is nice. Which is good, because she's also my wrestling coach, and no one wants a mean professional wrestler to be _any _sort of teacher.

When we are weighed for weight classes, the teacher actually pulls me aside and asks me if I'm anorexic.

Then again, I suppose I can't really blame her. Considering that I'm 5'2" (5'6" if you count the platform of my boots, which most people don't realize isn't actually me), and weigh only 82 pounds, it's not crazy that she would be concerned.

I weigh noticeably less than any of the other kids. Enough so that I am actually in my own weight class with just one other student, and a boy at that. He weighs 95 pounds, she tells me, and he's 5'7". Apparently, I will be wrestling with only him until the competition at the end of the year, which will take place in Manhattan.

Everyone gather in a big, loose circle on the mats covering the floor – the walls are padded, too, so that no one gets hurt. The teacher – what's her name again? Baldyga, I think – teaches us several different moves before she lets us practice amongst our groups.

My partner comes up to me then. He's scrawny, like me. He wears a loose white tee, stained with some fluid that looks like motor oil, suspenders, and basketball shorts – I changed into a pair myself, black – and barefoot, like me. It gives us better traction. He offers me a hand, grinning impishly. I shake it, grinning back optimistically. "Hey," he greets. "I'm Leo Valdez." He lets my hand go as fidgets with the hem of his shirt.

"I'm Kali Speculation."

He doesn't laugh at my name, which instantly makes me like him that much more. I examine him, sizing him up both as a person and as an opponent, and I know he is doing the same.

Not much taller than me in my boots, and nearly as skinny. Latino, with curly black hair, pointy ears, and a baby-ish face. Warm, sparkly brown eyes, combined with a quick mischievous grin and his constant movement let me know two things: to never, ever let him near any explosives, and that when we spar, he's going to be quick and unpredictable.

A good match for me, being the fast, reckless, wily little street rat that I am.

Satisfied with my analysis, I watch his hands move, amused. They drum on his lips, play with his suspenders, sweep through his hair. He notices me watching and grins. Simultaneously, we say, "ADHD." Mine is a statement, and his is an explanation.

We laugh.

Together.

**A:N: Forgive me for the boring and somewhat random ending; I just got really bored with this chapter! :D**


End file.
